


(Snap)Shots

by Savorysavery



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Blood and Gore, Despair!Akane, Despair!Hiyoko, Despair!Kazuichi, Despair!Mahiru, Gen, Gore, Graphic Violence, Horror, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-DR1, Pre-SDR2, Tragedy, Violence, ultimate despair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savorysavery/pseuds/Savorysavery





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Mahiru wanted to record the world, and so she did, doing it for her muse.

 **Rated:** Explicit

 **Genres:** Horror, Tragedy

 **Overall Warnings:** Gore, Violence

 

 **Author’s Note:** I had this idea on Mahiru’s birthday -4/24- and decided to post it up today, on the 25th as a reward for working: rather, as a break piece before I dive back into work. I think she’s a bit underrated, admittedly, but is a fascinating character: how could someone so nice fall into Despair so easily? I wanted to explore that in this piece with a despair!Mahiru who considers Junko her muse, and unlike the others, has no romantic affection towards her. Rather, Junko is inspiration here, and Mahiru does her bidding, camera in her hands. So enjoy a bit of Mahiru love: this looks like it’ll be a multiple chapter piece, leading up to the events of SDR2.

Also, this is set during the events of Dangan Ronpa 1, but before SDR2, so there's definitely spoilers if you haven't played the game. Of course, I'm using quite a few characters from the second game, so warnings. That being said, enjoy! 

* * *

 

The sky was red, but then again, it had been since The Biggest Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History, permanently stained red at the center, fading to bruise blue and purple at the edges, eerie and uncanny in such a short time.

And it was the **worst** to Koizumi Mahiru.

Tragedy, her ass, she thought, rolling her eyes. “More like the The Biggest, Most Awful Most Tragic Filter for a Camera,” Mahiru whispered, scoffing at the bitter breeze. It gusted up through the cracked and shattered window of a café, flushing the room with acrid air, and she sat down her warm soda, suddenly done with the pilfered drink. She wrinkled up her nose in distaste, bitter air settling on her tongue with every breath, and it turned her gut, making her stomach feel like a churning sea. “Better than all this disgusting blood,” she grumbled as another breeze wafted in, and she got up, kicked her chair back in, and walked out the café, back into the streets of the city.

It was quite, but it had been recently: everyone had been dispatched across the world to finish Enoshima-sama’s splendid work. Mahiru had been kept at their home base in the city for unknown purposes, though she wasn’t want to ask: she was pleased to know she’d be going home to Junko that evening, back to her muse, though she knew Souda would want to put her to work archiving his mechanical monstrosities. Worse, Saionji would find some way to monopolize her time, though Mahiru had to admit, there was a certain attraction to working with her.

Her phone buzzed in her skirt pocket, but Mahiru ignored it: the tell-tell jingle assigned to Enoshima wasn’t ringing, so there wasn’t much need to answer. She’d get it if her phone went off twice, though most likely, it’d just be someone making an asinine request of her when she had better to do: rather, had better to do with her own personal time. Those of Ultimate Despair who were here -Souda Kazuichi, Saionji Hiyoko, Akane Owari and Kamukura Izuru- could do for themselves, she felt: the only one who mattered was her **muse**. When Junko called -she most likely wouldn’t, which was a bit (deliciously) despairing to Mahiru- she’d answer, and that was that.

Strolling uptown, she caught the scent of destruction, the metallic, saccharine decay of humans. She paused as she crossed a small bridge in a park, and spied a mound of humans, each bearing deep gouges. She smiled: it seemed that Enoshima-sama’s plan for a bear-styled robot had gone off without a hitch, ripping effectively into flesh and spattering the pavement and grass below with gore.

The wind gusted stronger and she caught that scent of **death** and inhaled deep, feeling a shudder ripple up her body. Her lust for despair, unlike most of the others, wasn’t self-inflicted, nor was it sadist: Mahiru got her fix from seeing the aftermath, from seeing something so ugly beautified, from seeing Enoshima turn the world into a brilliant masterpiece. Better, she got to be the sole archivist of this new, dark utopia: she was Queen of the Camera, and collected each moment in clicks and data. It was a very self-serving pleasure, part voyeuristic -wholly voyeuristic, if she admitted to it- and part grim justice. She was Judge, Jury, and Executioner, casting her judgement with a click, and it was the best **high** she could ever get.

Licking her lips, Mahiru crouched down, not caring that her skirt hitched up, that she was a single woman, rather pretty, out alone in the city, with legs exposed, unassuming. Who was going to both her anyways? She was the only one brazen enough to go out into the city along and if someone _did_ choose to try and both a young woman in the event, she could also test out one of Souda-san’s newly modded guns to grab a few new action shots for her camera. She _did_ prefer her photos to capture that last flicker of hope before despair bloomed: it made Enoshima-sama the **most happy** , seeing the light in a person’s eyes fade as despair’s great maw gobbled them up.

“I change my mind. What a sunset for a photo,” Mahiru mused, and she leapt from the bridge, feet splashing into a puddle of technicolor blood near a small, whisper of a creek, displacing the arm resting, cold and pale, in it. The puddle beneath her squelched, and she giggled, squishing her Bringing her hands up, camber held between them, she pressed her index finger down and it clicked, flash flickering for a moment capturing the corpse. She snapped a couple more shots, keying in on the faces: unassuming **nobodies** with parted lips, eyes grey and milky, despair a distant glint. She wondered, silently, how it must have felt in those final moments, how the claws of the mechanical black and white bear must have felt popping through skin down to flesh, how the shock of being killed, of bleeding out, must have been. Strange that a child -Mahiru thought her name began with an “m”, but hadn’t considered it much, as Enoshima-sama did most of the work outside their group- had crafted such a thing. Deep inside her, she felt that grim, dark feeling rise in her gut again, and let it make her shudder, let it shake her until tears slid from the corners of her eyes, and felt fresh despair that a child, once innocent and sweet, could fall to despair and be twisted into crafting such a thing, so cute yet deadly. It was the only kind of trick a child could dream up.

**Until a wad of terror and bitter fright came at the thought of dying like that right then and there.**

Mahiru leveled her grey eyes, staring around the park. She heard a scratching noise, but nothing came of it a minute later, then dug her hands into her hair, scoffed, and turned on her heel, kicking bodies out the way as she stomped across. Sudden anger welled up in her, transforming into an embarrassment as far from despair as could be. Yet there it bloomed again: a fear that pinched her gut as the blood gummed itself to her ankles and feet, a realism that death could fall her at any moment.

She made her way back up onto the main path, and continued until the park returned back to city sidewalk. Her phone rang again, and this time, it was a merry jingle. Her heart leapt, and she tilted her head back, a wide, peaceful grin on her lips. “What a lovely day for a photo indeed,” she breathed. The buzz of the phone continued, tinny pop jingle blaring. “Ah,” she sighed, and withdrew her phone from her pocket. She flipped it open and answer, a bright smile on her face.

“Good evening, Enoshima-sama. How can I assist you?”

  
 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Warnings:** Familial touching (mild sexual assault, nothing in the territory of rape or unclothed interactions), Cursing

 

* * *

 

They called home “Despair Inn” because where else would a group of older teens getting fixes off of gut-wrenching emotions live? Either way, it was actually quite nice, a former four-star high rises that Ultimate Despair -and Enoshima-sama’s seemingly _endless_ funds- outfitted to be HQ, a place for them to plan out how to precisely let the world wreck itself.

Mahiru cruised through the front door, dirty, bloody sneakers squeaking on pristine tiles, and padded her way to the elevator, pressing the button with her thumb. The bell ringed and the doors opened, and she pressed “twelve” zipping up with a lurch. It opened into a long, sleek hallway, stale with the scent of multiple bodies, but Mahiru didn’t feel bothered by it. She quickly bypassed any unease and turned a sharp left, walking over to door 1201.

The door was unlocked already, and so she entered, gripping the knob. She swung the door in, and-

**THUNK.**

A knife impaled itself in the wall, the whoosh of impact making her hair shift for a moment. Mahiru forced herself still, allowing only the slightest reaction, clamping down on the natural reaction to, well, react. “Damnit, near miss!” It was Kazuichi, who was cackling, spinning a wrench around, twinning it through his fingers. “Well, we can’t _all_ be perfect, can we?”

Enoshima Junko chuckled, ruffling Kazuichi’s hair, and turned at the hip. “Ah, our little _picturesque_ beauty returns.” She clasp her hands and smiled warmly, and Mahiru felt her heart warm: the whole world -her whole world- was focused on her.

“Ah, there’s no need for that, Enoshima-sama,” Mahiru greeted, eyes twinkling. She sighed sweetly, felt her cheeks warm, and tilted her gaze down. She always felt so in awe of Enoshima, so fortunately be in her presence: she was one of few people Mahiru felt truly _understood_ her, saw past her plain talent to find something…more.

“Then I won’t,” Junko jabbed, winking. Her boot heels clicked as she crossed the room, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She was chewing gum today, smacking loudly with every loud _chomp_. “How’s the chaos?”

“Same as always: disaster and death wherever we go,” Mahiru replied. The smell of viscera gummed to her shoes hit her stomach and she chuckled bashfully. “Can’t hardly walk without stepping in it.”

“Hilarious!” Junko replied, cocking her head. “Well, go clean up then come back: I’ve got some new ideas, and I want my _best_ and _brightest_ on hand. And make it quick.”

“Of course, Enoshima-sama,” Mahiru chirped, and she dashed from the room, eyes catching on the glint of the knife before she left.

She turned right this time, heading down to room 1210, and slid her key in, unlocking the door. Though small protection against a group with a mechanic in it, the click of the lock made Mahiru feel **safe** , something rare given the company she kept.

Mahiru’s room was simple, using the original fixtures. The only hint of decoration -of a personal touch- was a wall that was covered in photos, ranging from her years at Hope’s Peak to blood spattered bodies. She’d add her shots from today to the wall, overlapping more and more of her old self, of the Mahiru that was too quick to be mother and forget herself . Her dark room, fours below, was the only other addition to their headquarters she’d added: pure necessity, Mahiru thought: leave the most minimal mark. Ironically, out of all of them, Hiyoko had added the most touches to the place, though considering it now, Mahiru didn’t find that odd: Saonji was well-known to have a higher pedigree of taste, and it shone in her Japanese-style bedroom five doors down. Given Ultimate Despair’s taste for gore, her room was surprisingly prim, a stainless paradise tucked into a world of mayhem, complete with tatami mats and screen door, both of which Hiyoko had goaded Mikan into carrying up to her room, bullying the girl until the room was wall to wall with the bamboo mats and neat _shoji_ screens.

But Mahiru was **content** with life thus far, and saw no need to go to Hiyoko’s lengths for pleasantries. This wasn’t why she was here, slopping around despair. She was here to serve a purpose, and would readily live a more ascetic lifestyle than gloat about how sumptuous her quarters were. They were her: this hair, that her, and all the Mahiru between her old school life and now.

She cleaned quickly and basically: a sponge bath with a clean towel, a quick brush of her hair, and finally, tossing her shoes and socks out for disposal. She’d have Kazuichi burn them in the incinerator later when he replaced the fuel so she could avoid the smell of bodies feeding his machines. Since the fall of the world, fashion had stopped being all but Enoshima’s thing, leaving Mahiru with a slim selection of clothing. She snagged out a simple black pleated jumper skirt and an old white shirt, sliding into a pair of soft slippers before she returned back down the hallway to room 1201.

In her rather brief absence, Junko had transformed the room into a war chamber, dim lights casting long shadows over old conference room furniture gouged from the bottom floor. There were only a handful of the group present: Owari Akane, Souda Kazuichi, Saionji Hiyoko, and of course, Enoshima herself, though the ever daunting -and stoic- Kamakura sat near by, red eyes staring unblinkingly ahead. It made Mahiru shudder, not from despair, but from human instinct: even though her talent relied on keen eyes, she wasn’t fond of staring and still found it rude. Thankfully, a seat was free on Saionji’s left, providing a barrier between those red eyes.

She sat down softly and greeted Saionji, who regarded her warmly, patting her leg and instantly setting to gabbing. They had a fairly amicable relationship that bordered, honestly, on genuine friendship, if that could be had in such despair: Mahiru helped her dress daily, tying her sash about her waist before they headed to breakfast. It had endeared Saionji to her quickly, deflecting any ire away and doubling it onto Mikan whenever she could. Something never changed, Mahiru figured: bullying Mikan was one of those things Saionji would never cease to do.

There was a cough, then all the heads turned to Junko, who had her arms crossed. “Welcome, hello, blah, blah, _blah_ ,” he began, waving a dismissive hand. “Let’s get to the important crap. I…” Junko paused dramatically, making sure all eyes were on her. “Will be _leaving_ for a while.”

There was silence, then Kazuichi barked a laugh, dropped his wrench with a heavy hand onto the table and set to twirling a pink strand of hair around his fingers, flashing sharp triangles of teeth. “Where t’hell ya going, Mistress?” he asked, cocking his brow.

“Away,” Junko cooed, pursing her lips. “You _know_.” She wiggled her fingers at him, rolling her eyes teasingly. “Don’t be coy or I’ll _punish_ you, Kazuichi~!”

Kazuichi colored at that, cheeks flaring red, but he played it off coolly.“Well, fuck yeah, I do,” Kazuichi replied. “But are you gonna keep _them_ waiting?” It was clear Kazuichi knew, but Junko was willing to entertain and play along.

“Ah, I suppose I shouldn’t: devout followers deserve a good reward, don’t they?” She eyed everyone, even Kamakura, before she spoke. “I am going to Hope’s Peak, my dearest mechanic, to showcase _our_ little treasure to the world.” Kazuichi colored at that, and smiled fondly: gone were the halcyon days of fawning over Sonia Nevermind, Mahiru thought. Kazuichi only had eyes for Junko now, ever since she’d taken him into her confidence for whatever plans had her occupied at Hope’s Peak. It was hard not to be taken with Junko, though: despairing as she may be, she was seductive, full of natural charism that swallowed you in. Mahiru found she was leaning forward, and even Owari, silent for the most part, fingers running over a length of chain at her neck, was shifting forward, eyes bright with wonder, lips parted in eagerness. “Our mechanic has crafted something _very_ special for us all: a series of **sixteen** blissfully torturous devices, all meant to kill and do one thing: bring **despair**.” Junko swooned, catching herself before she fell, and slammed her hands down on the wooden table hard, features freezing into an angry affect. She snarled, cocked her head, and flashed a set of perfect, white teeth.

“But wait,” Junko began. “ _There’s more_. Tu-turu!” She sang out, wiggling her fingers as she stood back up and stamped her heel. “Welcome…to **me**!”

The door creaked open and a girl walked in that looked _too much_ like Junko: similar features, same blue eyes, same strawberry blonde hair, and same soft, fair skin, lips a soft pink and nail perfect ovals. Yet there was a sharpness to her that Junko lacked, a restrained that the Queen of Despair failed to capture in her hunger, and a reserve that none of them had witness, or had the wit of mind, to even think of. She was only slightly taller than Junko and sported something rather chic: lacy hot pants with thigh high white socks, a button down with ruffled collar and sleeves under a plaid underbust vest. Heels clicked as she came to stop next to Junko, waiting patiently. “Meet Ikusaba Mukuro, my _dearest_ elder sister,” Junko chirped, wrapping her arms around her sister, uncomfortably close even by Ultimate Despair’s standards. She reached up and grabbed at her sister’s bust, cackling when Mukuro stiffened. “Pretty, isn’t she? I mean, I _guess_ , if you’re going for knock off me. The oreo to my hydrox, am I right?” Quickly, Junko’s arms wormed up Mukuro’s body to her shoulders until blood red nails were resting lightly at the junction of Mukuro’s neck, tapping out a beat. “She’ll be assisting in my biggest scheme _ever_. Greeting, big sister~! Don’t be rude to my wonderful little _friends_.”

Mukuro bobbed her head, eyes giving a once over to the entire table. “My name is Mukuro. I am the Ultimate Soldier. Regards,” she said, and she took a seat next to Kamakura, eyes focused forward.

“So sweet of her, isn’t it?” Junko said, and she clapped for a moment, the last clap ending too hard. “Now, onto more important business. We have time to **kill** , after all.”

“So, are you going to _tell_ us?” Hiyoko asked, lips curling up impatiently. “Come _on_ , big sis: don’t hold out!” She fumed and kicked her legs, _geta_ click-click-clicking against her seat. “What are you doing at Hope’s Peak that’s so _important_?”

Junko chuckled and shifted Mukuro away, and in an instant, she was ignored, relegated to standing awkwardly next to Kamakura. “Okay, _okay_ , Hiyoko. So, here’s the deal: we’re going to kill.”

“We already do that,” Akane finally chirped up, tilting her head. She, in Mahiru’s eyes, was the least changed: she still had most of her nature, listening only to what mattered. “What’s new?”

“Ah, but this is **better** ,” Junk replied cooly, eyes narrowing. She shifted her hair, tugging it into a high ponytail, and slid a pair of glasses from her cardigan, voice clipped and prim when she spoke next. “You see, my dear Akane, what I mean to enact is a _mass_ killing game. Sixteen students, sixteen ways to die, all orchestrated for mass media consumption. It will be broadcast, primarily, form a Towa City network, and will span the entire world via international stations. In doing so, we will further spread despair through breaking humanity’s last **hope**.” Junko’s head jerked and the glasses flew off, and with a quick hand, her hair was spilling down her back, tongue handing out of her mouth, arms crossed before her with index and pinkie fingers held up. Her whole demeanor was looser, less restrained than normal, and she was **crass**. “It’s gonna be _good_ , motherfuckers: I’m talkin’ _blood_ and _guts_! Who knows: maybe one of the guys will fuckin get nasty with a lady! It’ll be the shit for the boob tube, ya feel me? It’s gonna be a fuckin’ _riot_ , and momma’s gonna fuck. them. up!

There was a soft mumbling from them all, and Akane’s eyes grew bright with understanding. They all suddenly understood Junko’s motive in one instant: it was to cause another wave of **mass despair** , and as the feeling rippled through the room, everyone set to shuddering, eagerly swept up in Junko’s frenzy/

There was a gleam in Junko’s eyes, a crazed brightness that hinted at her edging closer to that high of despair. It was an intense level that none of Ultimate Despair dared chase: it was a beast only Junko could control, for who could befriend a monster _but_ a monster? She pursed her lips as if she’d heard the moans and whimpers of the Ultimates gathered there, and let out a long, low laugh. “It’s going to be the best game _ever_ ,” she whispered, voice low. “It’ll be my _biggest_ moment. A group of _helpless, little students_ , and the **whole** world is going to see them **kill** each other, all for what? To escape into this shithole?” She scoffed and clucked her tongue. “And best of all?” She paused for a full minute. “I’m don’t even have to do much but let them at each other. They’ll do all my work for me: I just get to watch the bloodbath.”

Next to her, Mukuro smiled, a dark glower that stretched across tight lips, and Kamakuru huffed out his own version of a chuckle. The others -Akane, Kazuichi, Saionji, and even Mahiru- felt giggles and laughter bubble up at the situation: it was entirely absurd, a game where student would slaughter one another again. They’d fall into Junko’s game once again, tempted by despair to reveal their true natures.

And Mahiru got to be a part of it all.

“My _Mutual Killing Game_!” Junko bellowed, and she barked out an endless stream of high laughter. Kazuichi added his own chuckle, looking quite smug, being in the know and all. It made Mahiru’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. She stuffed down the feeling and cleared her throat softly, and Junko paused. “Ah, Mahiru?”

“A killing game, Enoshima-sama?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap. She worried the bottom of her lips, then looked up demurely, curiously. “Haven’t you conducted one before?”

“Ah, of course,” Junko mused, and she extended an arm out, catching a long lock of Kamakura’s dark brown hair. He sighed, clearly bored, and twitched away, the only sign of irritation evident in slightly flared pupils. “Yes, I have. It’s how we all came together, isn’t it, I-za _-ru_?”

“I suppose,” Kamakura replied, then his red eyes flicked up as if he had just seen Junko standing there, and finally found it fit to acknowledge her. His eyes drifted back down, lips pressed into a flat line, and he sighed “Are we quite _done_ here?”

“ _Bo_ ring,” Junko sang, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a mood _kille_ r.” Her mood shifted back quickly though, and she was playful once more. “Ready to get more excited, because this one,” she paused dramatically, voice dropping. “Is _special_. It’s _our_ game, this time. We’ll all be watching them, and _pushing_ them, and even better: they won’t know it’s their sweet seniors guiding them to kill.”

Junko’s voice had a way of rousing them all, and now, all eyes were on her, and all looked hungry for her. Junko was the gospel and she was here to feed her masses, and Mahiru was devout, waiting for Junko’s big revelation. “It’s going to be the Biggest, Most Fantastic Thing Yet, a smorgasbord of _despair_.” She whispered the word like sweet nothing, a sight of breath slipping past glossy lips. “And you, my wonderful little despairlings, will make it the biggest event in history, even bigger than Momma Junko’s Tragedy~ _Everyone_ will feel what we do, that deep, gnawing pain, and we’ll say **fuck you** to the world, babies!” She let out another laugh, then her mood shifted sharply, dropping her expression into sheer boredom. “Because, isn’t that only right?” she breathed out, and the scent of her breath was bubblegum sweet, drifting across the room to them.

Mahiru squirmed in her seat, and finally, gripping the hem of her skirt, she found her words. “Enoshima-sama, I…I can’t see where my skills fit this. I’m…I’m just a photographer.”

Junko’s laughter cut short, and her voice dropped back to its normal pitch, sweet and kind and _beckoning_. It drew Mahiru in, made her feel welcome. “Of course you’re essential, Mahiru. It’s part of why I’ve kept you close so near our _grand_ debut. The world may known about despair, but it’s at its zenith not: I want to deliver the _best_ despair, the kind that will eat. you. _up_. Only you can capture that: you’re the best with film, and you know how to work everything from a camera to photoshop. I _need_ you,” Junko said, eye shining as if she was moved to tears. “You know how important you are to me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Mahiru breathed out. She nodded reverently, meeting Junko’s gaze. “Of course.

There was a bark of a cough, and Mahiru turned to see Hiyoko’s face screwed up in annoyance, though it thankfully wasn’t directed at her, but more so at wanting to simply **know**. “So, who are the students? More reserve course scum?” Hiyoko asked, lip curling up.

“Oh no,” Junko said, drumming her fingers hard against the table top. “Why, this game will be played with our _special_ little _kouhai_ ,” Junko replied, waving a finger as Hiyoko. “The wonderful, oh so alive Class 78.”


End file.
